35. LACEY
Chapter thirty-five
M y arms trembled as I held the last scorpion pose.
I exhaled slowly and steadily until my big toes touched each other and nearly reached my head.
After rolling out of the position, a sheen of sweat clung to my skin, and my pulse was loud in my ears.
The workout app chimed its annoying little “Namaste,” and the screen dimmed.
I relaxed back onto the mat, my chest rising and falling heavily, my legs splayed out like I’d just finished a battle.
Which, I guess I had.
I had been stuck in this penthouse for three weeks, and I had more than a little cabin fever.
Three weeks without seeing Nik.
Three weeks since he’d held me in his lap, rubbed my back, and whispered that he liked my real name.
I glanced at the time on the TV—6:00 p.m. Not that it mattered. The hours had blurred together. Mornings bled into afternoons, and evenings stretched out into slow, lonely nights.
And still, nothing.
No call.
No visits to his own home.
No rough hands pinning me to the wall and growling threats in my ear.
Just me in the most beautiful gilded cage.
The only proof he hadn’t vanished off the face of the earth was the note he’d left and the handful of texts I’d gotten since.
The morning after our conversation, I’d woken to the whoosh of the elevator door closing. A disorienting silence had followed. He’d left a note on the kitchen island, written in bold, masculine handwriting:
I’ll be away for a little while, but I promise I will be back.
You need time to heal, and I need time to deal with the war I ignited against Delgado.
You’ll be safe and well cared for. Expect company from Henri Delacroix, one of my men, and Dr. Maria St. Clair, a therapist. Text me if you need anything. Trust me, Lacey.
—N
Trust me, Lacey.
The moment I’d read that last line, the memory of the way my real name had rolled off his lips set off a spark that made me ache for a future I’d never dared to imagine.
Like he’d branded it into my heart, I craved to hear it again.
But that didn’t stop the shock from rolling through me. He’d just…left? After everything we’d shared, everything I’d told him about my family, my past, the hell I’d been through? He’d held me, whispered in my ear, called me strong and beautiful—and then ghosted me.
The worst part was that I had no idea when Nik would return.
After finding the note, I had stormed straight to the guest suite and picked up my phone to try to reach out to someone— anyone who could help—only to find that The Wolf was the only contact in it. All my texts? Gone.
Most of my apps? Deleted.
It was like my phone had been gutted.
How the hell had he gotten into my phone and done this?
Of course, he was a big-time hacker, so making changes to my phone was probably child’s play to him.
I couldn’t even send an email. Couldn’t order a pizza. Couldn’t message Nat or Jae or even look up what the hell a person was supposed to do when being held hostage by a stalker-turned-bodyguard-turned-I-don’t-know-what-he-was-anymore.
For spite, I’d changed his contact name to Prison Warden and sent him a text.
Controlling much?!
He’d replied instantly.
Be a good girl and get some rest.
In response, I’d fired back the woman-facepalming emoji. I mean, the audacity of that man!
I had gone to the elevator and tested it of course. Still a no-go.
Tried the stairwell door. Locked tighter than a vault.
So, I’d texted my captor again.
What if there’s a fire?
You’re fine, he had responded.
I’m not fine, I pushed back.
No response.
Typical.
I had stared at his messages for a long time.
Not because I was mad.
Okay, I was mad.
But mostly?
I was confused.
What was his deal? Was he interested in me or just messing with my head?
Still, I wasn’t about to fall apart.
I’d survived The Sacrifice. I’d survived Delgado. I’d survived being stripped down, humiliated, and nearly sold to the highest bidder.
What were a few days alone in a luxury prison?
But after three full days of pacing, poking around, and obsessively checking my phone like a lunatic ex-girlfriend, I realized the penthouse was not only spotless, but also absolutely devoid of clues as to who this man was.
I’d snooped in every single drawer and cabinet in the place and let my imagination run wild searching for hidden doors or compartments.
The place was sterile.
Like a perfectly staged showroom that no one actually lived in.
There was no trash. No personal photos. No clues as to who Nik was besides a bratva stalker hacker man.
I wouldn’t be getting any more information about him until he chose to return.
I mean, he had to at some point. This was his home, right?
So I did what any bored, pissed-off theater nerd would do.
I redecorated the set.
The living room furniture? Moved.
Kitchen? Completely reorganized for someone under five-foot-four.
If I had to live in this place, I would make it mine.
Maybe I could provoke a reaction. I could feel his eyes on me, just like when he’d been following me around Manhattan before.
After his house had been thoroughly feng shui-ed, I threw myself into becoming a yoga master.
I completed my latest flow and padded barefoot into the kitchen, wiping sweat from my brow with the hem of my tank top.
My calves were on fire, and I was pretty sure my hamstrings would hold a grudge until tomorrow.
Pulling open the fridge, I reached for one of the sparkling waters Henri had stocked for me—dragonfruit-lime flavored.
My current obsession. Cracking it open, I took a long sip and leaned against the cool marble island.
All of a sudden, when I heard a familiar chime from my phone.
It was Henri.
The first time he’d shown up, I hadn’t known what to expect—some gruff, silent soldier in all black, maybe. Someone with a scowl on his face and a gun tucked into his waistband.
Instead, I’d gotten a dark-haired, tall, ridiculously French snack with kind eyes and the patience of a saint.
I’d gawked like a middle schooler when he walked off the elevator. He was immaculate, dressed to perfection, like a French James Bond. I hadn’t known what to say when he asked me what I needed.
“Food?” I’d offered, blinking at him like an idiot.
Apparently, he had taken that as a challenge.
The man had then proceeded to bring back half the damn grocery store.
It had taken me forever to put it all away.
He’d brought three types of peanut butter, two different brands of oat milk, some frozen duck, and an entire shelf of imported condiments I couldn’t even pronounce.
Add that to all Nik already had, and I was good on food for months.
But bless him. He’d meant well.
Two days later, when he’d come back to check on me, I was ready.
I’d made him sit on the barstool while I crafted the most absurdly specific shopping list I could muster—designer candles, satin pillowcases, erotica books with covers so wild I would have loved to see his face when he handed them to the cashier.
To his credit, Henri never even flinched—just nodded, made notes, and gave me that very French shrug that somehow managed to be both exasperating and amusing.
Poor guy had no clue what to do with a hyperactive Southern girl hellbent on spending Nik’s money.
Thanksgiving had come and gone a few days ago, not that it mattered much to me.
Since my parents and sister had died, the holidays had never been the same.
I barely celebrated them anymore. This year I’d figured it would just be me, tucked away in the penthouse.
I’d texted the Prison Warden to ask him to let my grandpa know I was safe so he wouldn’t worry.
He replied that he’d handled it and told me to enjoy the “special meal” I would be receiving.
That “special meal” had arrived in Henri’s hands—a full spread of Thanksgiving classics, complete with a pie box balanced on top.
Since he was French, he wasn’t one to celebrate the holiday either, and he’d made some offhand remark about the absurdity of the one day a year Americans cook and eat an entire turkey.
He was especially baffled by the concept of turducken , shaking his head like it was a war crime against poultry.
“You stuff a bird…inside another bird…inside another bird?” he’d asked, as if I’d personally invented it. I’d nearly choked laughing.
We’d ended up demolishing half the feast between the two of us and watching a couple of movies until late that night. Henri was starting to feel less like Nik’s head of security and more like a big brother I’d never asked for but was secretly glad to have.
“I’m here to serve, Miss Oakley,” he’d said more than once.
“Careful, Henri,” I had teased, “a girl could get used to this level of devotion—all the personal attention.”
He’d chuckled. “Then my boss would surely kill me.”
I hadn’t gotten much out of him beyond that. He wouldn’t tell me Nik’s last name or any other details about him. There were no chinks in the armor. He was polite, professional, and tight-lipped as hell. Infuriating.
So naturally, I had doubled down. The lists had gotten longer. More creative. I’d even tried to talk him into adopting a kitten from the ASPCA. He’d claimed to be allergic. I had teased him, telling him he was weak.
But overall Henri had been a ridiculously good sport about everything. And he was nice to look at too—with that artfully tousled hair and those warm brown eyes. Not to mention he had a voice that made everything sound like poetry. As if Henry Cavill had been raised on Bordeaux and charm.
I could’ve flirted shamelessly with him for hours, if I hadn’t had someone else on my mind.
Because no matter how handsome Henri was, he wasn’t Nik.